Promise
by itslikewestoptime
Summary: In which Ilse is a really smart whore and Melchior is newly reformed.


Disclaimer: I guess I'll launch right in and say that I don't own Spring Awakening. Yup.

P.S.- I'm shit at writing drunken dialogue. Be kind.

Read and review to help a sister out!

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"Is it true?" Melchior bellowed, heaving the door of Ilse's tiny cabin open and causing her to jump, the cup of- well, it wasn't tea, he could see that- flying from her hands and landing dully, spilling on the dirt floor.

"I-is whaat true?" she slurred, giggling at a joke no one heard.

"You damn well know what!" he shouted, louder, if that was possible. He was furious, his hands clenching and closing in his hands as he raged.

"Melchior," she mumbled. The giant orbs that were her eyes stared in his, looking eerie and alien in the candlelight ambience of her hut. "Don't be maaaaad. It's n-not your fault."

"You lying bitch," he seethed, as quiet as the flutter of a bird's wing. His words still managed to hang in the air. They echoed in his brain. He wished Ilse would say something. It forced him to think about them, his tone. It was too vulnerable for his taste, and left him feeling embarrassed for some reason.

"Melchi, pleeease-"

"No. You _bitch," _he cursed. _Again _with the same awkward vulnerability! "You swore you'd stopped. That it had only happened that one month you couldn't pay your rent."

"Why do you care, Melchior?" she asked, her voice softening. "My mistaaakes are mmmmine. You can't have them."

"You're wasted."

"You know it," she giggled, hiding her mouth with her hand. "I'm wwwaaaaaaasted."

"You're not going to remember this in the morning, are you?" he sighed, his posture beginning to slide from 'determined' to 'dejected'.

Ilse burped. "It's likely that I won't remember my entire adolescence."

"In that case," Melchior muttered, and strode over to where she was standing by the table. He grabbed her birdlike wrists in his strong hands and pulled her into his chest. She swayed a little and looked into his eyes. "You are worth something, Ilse Neumann. You're not as stupid as you think. You're not stupid at all."

Her eyes dropped to the puddle of whiskey they were standing in.

"Dance with me."

"Ilse-"

"Dance, you dolt."

"We don't have music."

"Make up your own," Ilse mumbled, releasing herself from his arms for a moment to pirouette. "That's how life is. You just make it up- as you- you go, Melchi."

He pulled her close again and tucked her head under his chin. She smelled like bread and booze and yesterday's incense.

"Sometimes," she whispered into his neck. "Sometimes I think you don't make anything up anymore, Melchi. Not since- since Wendla. I think you're different."

"You're very intuitive," he said absently. "I agree."

"You used to just dance. I don't know what changed."

"Everything changed," Melchior murmured.

"Melchi," she said suddenly, grabbing his hands and putting a foot of space between them. She seemed almost sober now, if you could overlook her swaying. "Melchi, I need you to promise me something."

"Anything," he answered without thinking. It was true. He would do anything.

"I need you to promise me that you know it wasn't your fault. That they died."

"I can't promise you that, Ilse."

"Melchior," She squeezed his hands tighter. "Moritz was going to do it. He would have done it at some point. It was inevitable, and it was his decision, and it was what he wanted, and no one, not me, or you, or Knochenbruch could have stopped him when he decided he wanted to go."

"I wish it was that easy."

"Oh, shut up, Melchi," she slurred. "You spend so much _fucking_ time brooding and blaming yourself."

They stared at each other for a moment, hands still intertwined.

"You're not going to remember this tomorrow, right?"

"Rrriiight."

Melchior closed the gap between them and kissed her. She tasted like whiskey and a cigar that she'd probably shared with an artist earlier. She was the antithesis of Wendla, and it seemed fitting. Her ribs were too visible, and she used tongue, and everything about it made him complete.

"Promise me you'll stop whoring yourself out," he whispered, hot and humid into her mouth.

"I can't promise that."


End file.
